


Vigil of the Grey

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awakening, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amaranthine is in the hands of an Orlesian, and though the Blight is over there is still something sinister in the shadows of the arling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

Serra Andras breathes in deep. The sea air was the same everywhere, but it always reminded her of something fresh, something new. Riordan would have chuckled, that rich sound that spread through the recruits and warmed them all on some base level. She misses him already.

Turning away from the bow of the boat, she considers her position. Commander of the Grey Wardens. It sounds ludicrous, even now. And in Ferelden... Maker, she had never thought she would ever see any pastures other than those of Orlais! And on top of that, she was to be– No, she could not even think it. She was an elf; things like nobility simply did not happen to people like her.

She can still picture Riordan's glare and stern words.  _ You are not an elf, you are a Grey Warden. You are no more and no less than anyone else here, do you understand that?  _ And it was true. The men and women who had arrived the week before her would not see her ears or her tattoos, but the griffon on her armour and the steel at her back. They would see a commander. The people of Amaranthine, however...

_ Yes _ , she thinks as the breeze ruffles her pale locks,  _ it will be difficult with the native souls _ . The people of Ferelden had memories as long as the elves – they did not forgive the occupation easily, and she could not fault them that. And on top of that, she was to be in a position of power, appointed by their new king – Alistair, himself a Grey Warden! She would have to suffer gossip, unsavoury comments, maybe even hostile attacks.  _ But, _ she reasons with a smile,  _ they're probably still nicer than our citizens. _

 

~*~

 

The woman who meets her at the docks smiles brightly. “Warden-Commander!”

“ _ Oui _ , that is me.” She returns the smile. “I was not expecting an escort.”

“I was sent as a guide more than anything. My name is Mhairi, and can I say it's a real honour to meet you.” She bows, far lower than Serra expects.

“Ah, please... no need for formalities with me, Mhairi. We are to be travelling together, I would not have you stand on ceremony. My name is Serra.” She turns to grab the few belongings that had not already been sent, but the woman stoops to pick them up. “Is this what you feel is expected of you, _Mademoiselle_ Mhairi? I am... unused to such help.”

“But you're the Commander. And you've come such a long way, and we've still got a day's travel ahead of us!” She insists, that bright smile still in place. Serra opens her mouth to argue the point, but something occurs to her.  _ She is not treating you like an elf. Isn't that the point? _ She shakes her head slightly and gestures for her to lead the way.

“Tell me of the Keep. Is it a grand building?”

 

~*~

 

It is chaos.

They fight their way into the Keep – a building that on any other day would have her fascinated – but right now, they struggle just to stay alive. Mhairi proves herself to be far more than just a guide, a fact for which Serra is grateful, as they blaze a path through to the shelter of the courtyard. They manage to best an ogre, no mean feat for two warriors unaccustomed to each other's styles, and urge the few survivors they find to get out. Serra sees no familiar faces, and worries.

They press forward and stumble upon a man commanding fire with his fingertips. Alarm bells begin to sound in Serra's head.  _ Mage. Magic. Unfamiliar. Run. _

He turns, catching their eyes, and looks decidedly sheepish for a moment. “Uh... I didn't do it.”

She balks, skidding back across the room. “Stay back,” she orders, and there is a strange look in his eyes before he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“I get it. Raaargh, scary apostate, down with the evil ones. I'm really not  _ that _ terrifying, am I?” This is directed at Mhairi, who draws her sword. “Okay. Apparently I am.” He puts his hands up, smiling nervously. “I really,  _ really _ don't mean you any harm. Promise.”

“Commander?” Mhairi spares her a brief glance. “Are you alright?”

The Warden stares at the mage for a long time, remaining silent as her heartbeat starts to slow down. Her eyes meet his. The familiar drum of panic begins again.  _ Run. Run and hide. Magic. _ But there is no mother to run screaming to, no Riordan to hide behind now – never again. She must face her demons alone. “ _ Mes apologies _ ,” she says after a long moment. “I am fine.” She does not look it, still far too pale and wide-eyed, but she takes a few steps forward. “I am... nervous, around men of magic,” she adds. “It is a long story. Perhaps one for another time.”

The man blinks, before smiling genially. “I might just hold you to that, if you don't throw me to the Templars. My name is Anders, dear lady.” He offers a short bow. “And if it's quite alright with you, I'd like to stick by your side. You seem to be quite capable of killing these monsters, and I've no intention of dying any time soon.”

She nods assent, though she is still trembling slightly as Mhairi rests a a hand on her shoulder. “Very well. Stay where I can see you,  _ s'il vous plaît _ .”

 

~*~

 

The dwarf considers her for a moment before grunting. “Your hair looks funny.”

The mage makes a quip about drunken dwarves, and for a moment the banter passes between her companions and the red-headed fighter – enough time for her to pull herself up to her full height. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“Fightin' darkspawn, same as you I reckon. You the new commander?”

“ _ Oui _ . And who are you?”

“Orlesian, huh? Hope you're better than the last one they sent. He wasn't too good at staying alive,” he snickers, and Serra feels a fire start in the pit of her stomach. “Name's Oghren the Magnificent. Thought I'd try my hand at being a bona fide Grey Warden.” She scowls, but her resources right now are few and she could use his axe.

“With me. Come, all of you.” The three fall in line behind her as they work their way towards the battlements, and mercifully there is no more frivolous talk, their energies poured into blasting the darkspawn from the world.

Mhairi is the first to spot the injured man, and is close to tears as he warns them of the terrors that lie ahead. Serra's blood runs cold at the mention of a talking darkspawn, and though the mage and the dwarf both suggest drink for the pain, she is not blind to his suffering. Kneeling down and whispering a soft prayer to the Maker, as she puts him out of his misery. Mhairi almost objects, but one glance at the commander and she is silent, mouthing her own prayer. They press on.

As the cold night air hits them, there is a voice in the air, one that has not known human speech in a long time. It grates like a rusty wheel on an axle, a constant dirge of rough words and growls, and they hang back, observing the user for a moment. The man at the mercy of the talking darkspawn is not a face she recognises, but beside her Mhairi tenses up.  _ Clearly a man of importance _ . And as he glances at her, her title uttered under such duress, she hopes to bring him out of this alive just to find out who he is.

The darkspawn lunges for her companions, but she intercepts, and the three make light work of his lackeys. He is a different breed, however, and it is only with the help of the mage and the dwarf that he is felled.

Mhairi rushes to the man's side, hauling him up to his feet.

“Varel, are you hurt?” Ah, the seneschal. No wonder he knew of her. He smiles, shaking his head, before turning to Serra.

“Commander, I owe you my life.” He begins to bow, but she grabs his shoulders.

“I think formalities can wait,  _ non _ ?”

Behind her, Oghren grunts, and they turn to look out towards the road, following his gaze.

“Looks like more company's on the way,” he mutters.

 

~*~

 

“Oh, Maker, it's the sodding king.” Anders looks like he wants to melt into the ground. 

Oghren chuckles. “He ain't so bad, once you get to know him.”

Serra takes a deep breath.  _ Five minutes in this country and already meeting the king! _ He smiles as he approaches, though she does not miss the unnerved look in his eyes as he examines the scene.

“Looks like we're a little late. Shame... I rather miss the whole darkspawn-killing thing.”

“Your majesty,” she murmurs, bowing low. The rest of her companions follow suit – except the dwarf, who struts up to the man and huffs.

“Evenin', pike-twirler.”

“Oh, so there's no beer left then?” he laughs, shaking his hand, and Oghren chuckles before stepping back. “And you must be the new Commander from Orlais. Seems you have quite the task ahead of you.” There is no mirth in his voice at that. “What exactly happened here?”

Varel steps forward. “Your majesty, the attack was sudden and bloody. There are a few survivors, thanks to the commander, but the Grey Wardens we could find are all dead.”

“The ones you could find?” Serra interrupts, confused.

“All I know is that we cannot account for all of them,” he replies, looking troubled. 

Anders looks slightly sick. “Why would they take prisoners?”

Suddenly, a harsh voice cracks across them like a whip. “ _ You! _ ”

The female Templar steps forward and snaps at Anders, and the king looks at her askance. Serra ducks her eyes – Chantry business is, after all, sacred and not to be interfered with.  _ Still, he did save your life and he could have just run... _

“I'll see you hanged for what you did here, murderer!”

“You cannot!” Serra is more surprised than anyone to hear her own voice. “I invoke the Right of Conscription.” Alistair's eyebrows quirk up, and Anders looks like her head is about to fall off. The Templar looks like she wants to kill her.

“You can't just -”

“I believe the Commander can,” notes the king in a tone that means business. “Ser Rylock, I think it is time we left. Inform the men.” She glares once more at the mage before turning and heading back to the rest of the soldiers. Alistair smiles slightly. “You know, I almost became a Templar, before the Wardens saved me. I think that's why I love winding them up.”

Anders reaches to touch her shoulder, looking thoroughly boggled. “You saved me. You're terrified of me and yet you still saved my life. Why?”

“ _ Monsieur _ , I am scared of your power. That does not mean that you should have to die,  _ non _ ?” She brushes off his hand and gestures for Varel and her companions to leave. The king looks at her with worried eyes.

“I am sorry for your losses, and the troubles that are still to come. I think we're going to be relying a little heavily on you in the upcoming weeks, especially for the security of this arling. Whatever's going on here... you need to stop it. And I wish I could help, I really do, but I'm royalty first, it seems, and a Grey Warden second.”

She inclines her head slightly. “I understand, your majesty.”

“Oh, please don't call me that. I'm getting sick of hearing it, to tell you the truth. Just Alistair will do.”

“Very well. Then I would have you call me Serra, brother,” she smiles, and he grins.

“Nice to meet you, Serra. Do keep me up-to-date, won't you? I'm sure it'll be a lovely break from all that ruling I have to do.” He bows to her, a gesture of equals, and she mirrors him, before watching as he heads back to his retinue.

_ He is right _ , she realises.  _ There is so much to do. _


	2. The Joining

The letters Varel hands her are a few weeks late, but then again, so is she. There is one from the new Knight-Commander of the Circle, and Anders scowls when she inquires after him.

“_Cullen's_ the Knight-Commander now? Really?” He scoffs. “That can only mean bad things for the mages. From what I heard, he went loopy after the girl he fancied got killed by a demon when Uldred took over... Therril or Tharrin or some stupid name like that. She was a looker, mind. Bit too quiet for my liking. Anyway, rumour is that he's challenging the king himself over the whole autonomy vote. Wants to keep us all under the thumb of the Chantry forever.”

Oghren has a few choice words on the letter from King Bhelen. “He was a right crafty sod, make no mistake. Had two brothers, the eldest was killed under mysterious circumstances. Some say the middle son did it, others say it was all Bhelen's doing. But the middle child got sent into the Deep Roads as punishment. Never came back. Which left Bhelen as the sole heir, although it weren't as easy as that. Soddin' hero of Ferelden had to step in and sort out the bloody mess. Nothin' new there,” he adds, chuckling.

She runs a hand through her hair raggedly as she glances over the various correspondences from the nobles of the region, wishing her well in her new command. She had been warned about this, of course, but she was finding it difficult to see through the endearing words to the truth of the matter – they did not care if she was well, they did not wish her the best of luck... they wanted her on their side, to have their best interests protected. It was all for show, and underneath the smiles and the kind words was a power struggle unlike anything she had been involved in before. Varel looks sympathetic as she sighs, slumping at the table where the few survivors dine together.

“Will it get easier?” she asks softly, and he shakes his head. She nods, once, before putting her fork down, her appetite for the heavy stew all but gone. “Jacques would never have stood for this food,” she murmurs, smiling slightly. “He is... _was_ always worried about his weight.” And now he was dead. They were all dead, or worse, and she did not even want to entertain that particular idea right now.

“I am sorry,” Varel offers kindly. “I know you have lost much, and it will be difficult to move forward. But we must.” 

She nods, running her hands over her face for a moment. “The Joining. I am aware that we need to act soon.”

“What do we actually have to do for that?” asks Anders, looking across the table at her. 

Mhairi scowls at him. “It's supposed to be a secret,” she points out.

The mage shrugs. “Secrets are all well and good, but given how few of us are at this table I don't think they're exactly a _helpful_ idea right now.”

“You thinkin' of backing out if it's too scary?” grumbles Oghren, and Anders grins.

“Oh, not at all. Between an uncertain future with you lot and a certain one with Rylock and a noose, I'll always take the mystery.”

Varel coughs, though his smile is not so easy to suppress. A thought occurs to him, and he turns to his commander once more. “I was thinking that it would be... prudent... for you to address just one more matter before we attend to that,” he says hesitantly, and she looks at him, curiosity piqued.

 

~*~

 

Nathaniel Howe is not a name she is familiar with. She is barely familiar with his father's name, the man who apparently aided in the almost-total destruction of the Ferelden Grey Wardens during the Blight, but what she does know is not good. His son, however, is very interesting.

“You broke into the Keep for revenge?” she clarifies. “And now you simply wish to take your family's belongings and leave?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” he asks dryly. She considers him – tall, well-toned – he was in good shape and by no means a slouch when it came to fighting. _They say it took four Wardens to bring him in. Half-joking, they said he'd make a good recruit. _She smiles.

“Stay. Become a Grey Warden.” The resulting laugh is sharp and brittle. He shakes his head.

“You Orlesians are clearly unaware of how things work in the real world. Why would I ever consider becoming part of the order that _murdered_ my father?”

“I had nothing to do with that,” she reminds him. “You are quick to paint us all with the same brush, yet you wish to be held apart from the actions of your father, who shares your family name.”

“It's not the same thing!”

“Is it not?” She tilts her head. “My family is the Grey Wardens. We may all strive towards a common goal, but our actions are not as one, much like the fact that you are a Howe yet you are not the man who tortured innocent people in the royal city.”

He folds his arms, eyeing her carefully. “So you want to force me into your precious order? To what end?”

“Ah, _non, monsieur_. Think of it this way. You wish to show me that the Howe family is not dishonourable. I wish to show you that the Grey Wardens are good. Consider it... a challenge, _non_? If you win, you may kill me, under certain conditions. I do have a darkspawn problem to attend to first.”

“And if you win?”

“You will smile.”

He laughs at that, though there is little mirth in it. “Smile? Is that all?”

“Ah, you misunderstand. You _will_ smile. It is not a request, simply a fact.” She smiles, a touch of wryness to the twist of her lips. “Will you accept the challenge?”

 

~*~

 

“You're bonkers, kid.” Varel glares at the dwarf, who continues regardless. “No, really, you're outta your tree. He came here to kill you and now you wanna make him a Warden?”

Mhairi winces. “Commander, I... have to agree with Oghren. It seems quite... unusual.”

“We cannot afford to turn away good recruits, even if they are the people who wish us dead,” she says tersely. “_Monsieur_ Nathaniel has given me his word that he will see our challenge through.” She shoots a glare at Anders, who is stifling his bewildered laughter behind his hand. “And I would ask you all to recognise the seriousness of this ceremony. These moments may be your last.” That silences them all. Varel holds up the cup, and for a moment she is transported to her own Joining, Riordan's hands gripping the chalice lightly as he called each of them forward. She had stumbled like a terrified sheep, and he had smiled kindly. _Now is not the time for snapped words._ The ceremony begins, and her thoughts turn to silent prayers, each saved soul a blessing as both Oghren and Anders fall to the ground, lost in nightmares but alive.

She can recognise the signs of a failed Joining within moments. So when she steps forward suddenly and cuts Mhairi's throat, Varel's protests are silenced with a single look of regret.  
“_Monsieur_ Varel. I will not allow suffering in the final moments of Mhairi's life. She deserves honour and peace.” With a soft touch, she closes the girl's eyes, murmuring a desperate hope for her safe passage into the beyond. Nathaniel looks sick, but he does not shy away from the task, taking the chalice and drinking deep. He too falls, limbs already wracked in seizure, but she is thankful for his life.

“And now,” Varel murmurs in a voice laden with sadness, “we wait, and pray.”

 

~*~

 

She is somewhat pleased to find that the small chapel has been spared from the tainted hand-prints that cover the Keep, and once the new Wardens have awoken, she excuses herself to pray. The air is still, the light from the candles bearing an almost dusky quality as she kneels in front of the visage of the prophet Andraste, and the stone flags underneath her feel rightfully cool as she murmurs memorised canticles in a soft voice. The words flutter from her mouth and hover around her, the closeness of the air suppressing them from reaching the rafters. 

“So.”

She looks up from her clasped hands. The mage. She tenses, and he notices, smiling gently and holding up his hands.

“Sorry. Just wanted to talk, if that's alright.” 

She nods, gesturing to the bench. “What is on your mind, Anders?”

“So you released a man who wanted to kill you... and made him a Grey Warden - a decision, by the way, that I still think is brilliant and insane at the same time. And yet every time you see _me_, the most friendly and lovely guy you could imagine, you look like you're about to die.” He sits down on the bench, not too close but not too distant, and his smile fades into a concerned look. “That accident must have been a really bad one,” he surmises.

“_Oui_. My sister... she did not mean it. But I still bear the scars.” She gestures at herself. “I am pale all over, _non_? Not always this way. And my hair... not always white.” She smiles sadly. “I love my sister, but I am scared to be in the same room as her. I know she did not mean it, but my heart... it cannot forget the terror.”

“What happened?”

“We were in the Alienage, waiting for Papa to get back from work. Just playing. And she was chasing me, I think? It is... fuzzy. Then she was no longer chasing me. It was not my sister anymore.”

“A demon?” He leans forward. “A demon possessed your sister?”

“_Non_, not possessed. It was... fleeting. Like a nightmare, during the day.” His eyes flicker in recognition. “I screamed. She fell to the ground. Mama, she took her into the house, then came back for me. I would not go in. I was... ill. Shaking, fighting, screaming. I would not go back into the house for a long time. I had to stay with another family.” She sighs. “My sister was taken by the Templars within the hour. But our Circle, I think, it is not so bad as yours. She writes to me every week, she is a very good mage she tells me. Always, she apologises. Always, I tell her she is forgiven.”

“I'm sorry.” He smiles slightly. “Even though it sounds trite to say, I really am sorry you went through that.”

She shakes her head. “Do not be sorry for me, Anders. I may be scared of magic, but I do not judge you for being a mage, _non_? When I joined the Grey Wardens, my mentor knew of this and partnered me with a mage. Within a few weeks, he was my best friend; I am no longer scared of him. This will be true of you as well. I will not be scared of you. And one day, I will not be so scared at all, I hope.”

He considers that for a moment, nodding, before turning slightly. At the door stand the rogue and the dwarf, one rubbing his forehead with a wince and the other merely standing. Beyond them, Varel can be heard barking orders at the few staff remaining. Standing up and moving to the corner of the room, a dimly-lit area with a small table for tributes, the mage rummages in the drawers for a candle, lighting it carefully before putting it in a holder.

“Sorry, Mhairi.” He reaches for another one. “What was the name of your friend? The one you mentioned at dinner.”

“Jacques.” She watches him light another, before speaking again. “Amelie. She was to be married in the spring. And Keenan. Victor. Renard.” The names spiral from her mouth until the tears drown them out and Varel's voice takes over, each one given a candle and a hope until Anders crosses the room, tentatively pulling her close as the others take seats and, as one, they sit and watch the thirteen candles burn the names of the lost into the Fade.

Somewhere between the last of the tears and the candles snuffing out, he carries the sleeping elf to her room.


	3. The Keep

The dawn does not wake her as it usually does. In fact, the sun has crawled halfway up the sky before she emerges from her chambers, groggy and disheveled but awake and dressed. She makes her way to the dining hall and finds her three Wardens. Oghren is a mess.

“Is he... still drunk?” she asks tentatively, and Nathaniel turns, a thin smile on his lips as he shakes his head.

“Honestly? We've given up trying to tell.”

Anders chuckles, still watching the dwarf belch his way through a bowl of porridge. “I'm still taking bets on how many bowls he can eat before he throws up, if you're interested. We're up to five.” The men both talk at once.

“Speaking of food, I was quite surprised this morning...”

“Actually, I wanted to ask. I had this really weird nightmare last night...”

She puts her hands up in defence. “One at a time, and none until I have had some tea. I admit I have not been forthcoming with information. I am sorry.” The men glance at each other before turning to sit at the table.

Oghren belches loudly, the sound echoing around the room, before patting his stomach. “Aye, that'll do me,” he decides. His eyes find the commander as she sits at the head of the table. “So what's all this about? The blood and everything.”

Serra opens her mouth to answer, but an elf appears at her shoulder, tea and porridge in hand. He places them in front of the commander without a word, and she feels distinctly awkward. As he leaves she picks up the cup, taking a tentative sip before answering. “The Joining is a ceremony that has been performed since the first Grey Wardens. As you know, you take the taint inside you – part darkspawn blood, part archdemon blood, and part-magic, and then you fight for your life. Some people live. Some people die. It is the way of the Wardens.”

“Why do they die? Is it simply strength that preserves you? Will of the spirit?” Nathaniel leans in, brow furrowed. “Was Mhairi simply wea-”

“I will not permit you to insult the memory of Mhairi.” Varel's voice cracks across them like a whip, and Anders and Oghren physically reel back. Serra does not bat an eyelid, sipping at her drink again. Nathaniel looks up, eyes narrowing. The man holds his ground. “She was a Warden, regardless of her death. I would ask you to respect that, Master Howe.” Something flashes in Nathaniel's eyes for a moment before he nods brusquely. Serra barely acknowledges the exchange, putting her cup down calmly before continuing.

“The taint becomes part of you. It will still kill you, however. Eventually you will hear what is known as the Call. The older Wardens... they would speak of it as if it were a lover.” She shivers slightly. “When that time comes, tradition dictates that you will walk into the darkness and fight until you are slain. You do not have to choose this, of course. You can choose to ignore it... for a time. But it is... a good way to die.”

Anders looks sick. “How... how long?”

“Thirty years. It is not that accurate, I admit, but it is rarely longer.” She tilts her head, considering him. “You seem uneasy at this prospect.”

“Uneasy?” He laughs, though it is hollow. “You've just told me how long I have left to live. Kind of takes the fun out of it.”

“And yet yesterday you were facing execution,” she observes. “This is not better? Thirty years to protect this world from the darkspawn, to live a half-life as a Grey Warden. You will still live and love and fight and feel. Surely this is better than a single day?”

“Yes, but... I don't know, it's pretty final. Just saying.”

Oghren grunts. “Better'n nothin' if you ask me.” He belches, before swinging his legs around and standing up. “Sometimes it's better to know that death waits fer you, see.” The following laugh is almost a bark, and entirely devoid of humour. “Worse things than death that can find a man.” With that cryptic message, he staggers off, the effect lost with his less-than-dramatic waddle brought on by the alcohol. Anders and Nathaniel share an uneasy glance, before turning back to their stout-hearted commander. She smiles thinly.

“I would personally venture that the darkspawn are a much worse fate than death,” she says simply. As Varel hands her a stack of papers, she waves the pair off with a dismissive gesture. Work to be done, as ever.

~*~

“So... you're a Howe.”

Nathaniel looks up at him. “What's your point, mage?”

“Hey, I'm fond of the Howes. I'm also fond of the Whys, the Whos and the Whats.” His voice can barely contain his glee. Serra stops, a frown marring her brow.

“How clever,” drawls the rogue, clearly unimpressed.

Anders chuckles. “Oh, it's _shameful_ how long it took me to come up with that, it really is...” Both men realise that they have now passed their commander, and turn to look. She is still frowning, looking between the men for a long moment before her eyes widen and she smiles.

“Oh! I get it!” And quite suddenly, she laughs – a strange sort of wheezing sound, patting them both on the back as she starts to walk again. Anders glances at Nathaniel, who simply quirks up an eyebrow before falling in line behind her. The mage shakes his head slightly, following.

The sound of two men bickering filters across the courtyard, and the trio are drawn to them. Serra notes the forge and anvil._ Ah, the armourer and his lover_. Varel had written about their hesitance to come to the Vigil in his notes, but there was no explanation as to why. She smiles, stopping just short of their hushed argument.

“Sers?”

One turns, performing a double-take and smiling broadly. “Oh, you must be the commander! Terribly glad you showed up, that mess with the darkspawn was just dreadful... anyway! I'm Herren, and this is-”

“What I am is bloody freezing!” whines the other man, standing closer to the forge and outright pouting. “Why are we _here_ and not in the city where it's _warm_?”

“We were sent by the king,” Herren reminds him, in a tone that speaks of infinite patience. “By special request, to fit the Wardens and their soldiers with the finest armour possible. You were there when he asked, remember?”

“All _I_ remember is that Warden chap who broke the last sword I made for him,” he says with a sniff. “It was a _good_ sword. I had so much fun making it.”

“Well, he _is_ the king now...”

“Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremo-”

“It was the Landsmeet, Wade. The _Landsmeet_ appointed him king. We watched the whole scene play out.”

“Oh, but if _I_ went around saying I was Emperor of Orlais just because some moistened bint lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away...” He is clearly no longer listening, but muttering to himself about how Denerim was a silly place.

Herren lets out the smallest of sighs before turning back to the bemused commander with a smile that is only slightly brittle. “I do apologise, Commander. He was reading some strange books on the journey over here, I knew I should have stopped him when he started raving about birds and coconuts, but once he's gotten his teeth into something...”

“No need to apologise,” she says simply, smiling and reaching to pat his shoulder. “I have the utmost faith in the two of you, and I am very pleased to have you with us.” The sharpness falls from his face, his smile genuine at her gesture, and she waves Nathaniel forward to get equipped with some basics for now. Turning to face the courtyard again, she takes stock of the people walking through – the few soldiers left behind by the king patrol the grounds, and the remaining workers often stop to regard the task ahead of them, all with some trepidation in their hearts. She cannot blame them.

In the corner of her vision, a sergeant stands straighter, waving her over. With the mage at her back, she crosses the courtyard, smiling kindly.

“Sergeant Maverlies, _oui_?” she asks.

“Yes, Commander. I have some pressing business to bring to your attention. The darkspawn may still be inside the keep, ma'am.” Behind her, Anders swears very quietly.

“Where?” There is no question of how or why – that will come later, when the problem is dealt with. Mavelies recognises this and opens the door behind her.

“Down in the basement. The cave-ins blocked the way down, but some of my men reported hearing noises as they cleared the rubble.”

Serra considers this, before turning to Anders. “Retrieve Monsieur Oghren. I will see to Nathaniel.” The mage sweeps away quickly, and she turns to look over at the armourers, but the rogue is nowhere to be seen. She curses briefly before scouting the courtyard.

He is smiling, miracle of miracles – a true and genuine shape on his lips that stops her in her tracks. The man he converses with is elderly, and she wonders if he is one of the old staff, that this is a link to his past that he is for once happy to see. Waving her over, he sounds almost joyous.

“Commander, this is Samuel! He was the groundskeeper here when I was a boy – well, still is. He says -”

She holds up a single hand, silencing him. “We have a situation. There are darkspawn trapped in the lower levels. _Mes apologies_, Samuel, but this will have to wait.” The man regards her with narrowed eyes before turning away wordlessly, and the rogue beside him watches him leave with something similar to surprise.

“I understand. But might I be permitted to make a formal request?” He turns to face her again. “After this is dealt with, I would like to be allowed to make a trip to the city.”

“Amaranthine? Whatever for?”

“That's... personal, commander.” He straightens, his defences back up. She considers him.

“I am afraid that I cannot spare you at the moment. However,” she adds before he can reply, “we may have a pressing need to attend to the city in person. Should that be the case, I am sure that there will be time enough for any personal business you may have, Nathaniel. Is this agreeable?” He nods curtly, a flash of something – _thanks?_ \- in his eyes for a moment before he turns his attention to the problem at hand.

“So. Darkspawn.”

She smiles wryly. “Indeed. Welcome to the Grey Wardens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all the thanks to valia for betaing.
> 
> Finally, a new chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> With much love to _valiasedai_, my incredible beta, and _Crisium_, my wonderful sounding board and cheerleader.


End file.
